


do you want to be found

by la_victorienne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-16
Updated: 2011-05-16
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:39:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: The thing about Eames is that, well, he's kind of creepy. Not because he tries to be, or creepy in the kind of small-children-in-a-van way; just creepy in that slightly unsettling way that comes out when he, say, lists all of Campbell Arthur's recent projects alphabetically and then chronologically.





	

The thing about Eames is that, well, he's kind of creepy. Not because he tries to be, or creepy in the kind of small-children-in-a-van way; just creepy in that slightly unsettling way that comes out when he, say, lists all of Campbell Arthur's recent projects alphabetically and then chronologically, starting with that remake of _Rebecca_ ten years ago and ending with the frankly fucking awesome rumors of that heist drama television show set in _dreams_ , which no-one knows the name of but is apparently filming in London this summer.

This is about the point people start backing away from the conversation. Eames is used to it. Because, yeah. He's a little creepy. He's dealing with it. But did he mention _London_ , where he _lives_? And how he's kind of following the production designer on Twitter, secretly hoping a clue will slip out about filming locations? And how all he really wants to do in life is bring Mr Arthur a coffee and maybe pick his brain about performing for the camera instead of the stage and he might be kind of creepy but his intentions are good, okay?

Well, mostly good. He might just shit himself if he could get the guy into his Facebook profile picture. Eames never claimed to be a saint.

It's just--he knows it's creepy, he _knows_ , but Campbell Arthur has had a rough couple of years, from when his older sister killed herself, and then there was the custody thing with her husband and the media fucking _revelled_ in it and Arthur just seemed more run-down in every candid airport photo Eames saw, even if it was only in the ways that someone like Eames (who has been a fan since he was eleven, thank you) would be able to see, and it's just really great to see him working, because it was touch and go there for a while and Eames just learns so much when Arthur performs and yeah, okay, creepy again. But the happiest candids have always come when Arthur is working, so yeah, Eames is glad to hear the rumors are solidifying into truth, for once, instead of being made up by TMZ for more traffic.

Eames just cares, okay?

Fortunately, the internet seems to agree with him; his blog, what traffic it gets, always has sympathetic commenters, whether he’s ranting about the unfairness of AfterElton co-opting Arthur as unofficial spokesman because his last boyfriend left him in public (did he mention it’s been a rough few years?) or waxing poetic about the shape of Arthur’s shoulders in his latest red carpet ensemble (because Eames might wear shitty clothes most of the time but he’s a _student_ and cannot pull off those waistcoats). The Internet, singular, nods and hems and haws at him, and it’s cool, and everything. But Eames is pretty sure the rest of the Internet doesn’t wake up at three in the morning in a cold sweat on the night Arthur is supposed to arrive in London wondering if the flight landed all right and then wait until morning to make sure there are no _OSCAR NOMINATED ACTOR DIES IN FIERY CRASH_ headlines. So, established: creepy, but earnest, and genuine. He’s just another guy with a crush on a guy way out of his league.

Seriously.

And maybe that explains it. Maybe that explains why, weeks later, when he sees Arthur’s crew from across a crowded bridge, his autograph book forgotten in his hands. He couldn’t possibly go closer, he thinks to himself. Couldn’t possibly disturb this, even after the cameras stop rolling. It’s too idyllic, too perfect, Arthur’s focus and concentration, his command of the scene. Eames just stands there, stock still, too far away to hear the dialogue but frozen all the same, until the scene breaks and Arthur looks up.

Up, and right into Eames’ eyes.

“Shit,” he swears, and trips over his own feet trying to get away.

Not that he doesn’t go back, the next day, sure Arthur will be gone and he’s missed his chance. Except they’re still there, filming at the end of the bridge this time, and if that’s not serendipity he doesn’t know what is. This time, when Arthur catches his eye, Eames lifts the extra coffee he’s brought, and leaves it where Arthur can see it. He’s scrawled _For you, good to see you working_ on the cardboard sleeve, and then _xx E_. He doesn’t pull out his autograph book. He just wants to give Arthur something. He doesn’t stay, to see if Arthur drinks the coffee. For all he knows, it’ll still be there when he comes back the next day.

Which he does. For days, as long as they’re shooting in the area. He has no idea what’s taking so long; for all the film he’s studied he has no idea what they could possibly keep needing in that particular location. And he brings coffee, and Arthur meets his eyes, and he really has no idea what the fuck is going on but it feels right and not really that creepy at all, and that’s okay.

Until Friday. Friday, which is when everything really changes.

He’s just deposited the coffee nearby, and is giving Arthur his standard cursory wave, as somebody calls “wrap” and people start packing up gear, even though it’s only half noon. Which means—oh. Eames knows what it means. It means they’re not filming here anymore, and his week of perfectly creepy bliss is over. It means he will fade in Campbell Arthur’s memory, only to ever be the strange kid who brought crap coffee every day for a week. It means he should probably get out of here as quickly as possible, because otherwise he might do something really, really stupid.

“Wait, kid!” he hears, from behind him, and that’s unexpected. Because it’s _Arthur’s_ voice. He turns around, slowly, with his palms up, as Arthur jogs towards him, and seriously, if the ground swallowed him up right now, that wouldn’t be so bad, right?

“Sorry,” he manages. “Really—I didn’t mean to be a bother while you were working, I thought—I should go.”  
He finally meets Arthur’s eyes, or tries to. Arthur is inexplicably staring at his mouth. Eames licks his lips. “Um, sir? Really, I don’t mind, I’ll just—”

“Don’t,” Arthur says sharply, and Eames snaps to attention. “Don’t go.” He gestures, vaguely, to Eames’ bag. “You wanted an autograph, right?”

And no, that’s not really what Eames wanted; Eames wanted Arthur to feel like someone was on his side, wanted him to feel like Eames wasn’t asking anything of him, but he finds himself handing over his book and a pen, helplessly. “Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, shooting? Or going—somewhere? I didn’t—I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“I know you didn’t,” Arthur says. “Who do I sign to?”

“Eames, uh, Eames. Like the chair.”

Arthur smiles, and it’s blinding, even though he’s looking down at the little brown journal in his hands. I’m fucked, Eames thinks distinctly, and really, whenever the earth would like to open up, that would be fine with him, just _fine_.

As it is, though, Arthur hands the book back with a neatly written note and the scrawl of a name. “Here you are, Mr Eames.”

“Thank you,” Eames chokes out, and Arthur smiles wider, shows his fucking _dimples_ , who _does_ that, and is apparently showing no signs of walking away. “I should, uh, let you get back to work,” Eames hedges.

Arthur inclines his head. “You could do that. Or you could come back to the studio with me, get a tour.”

Eames pinches himself. Eames _actually_ pinches himself, because if he’s not mistaken, Campbell motherfucking Arthur has just invited him to _be creepy_ , with full sanction. This cannot possibly be real life.

He’s not entirely certain what he says next, but it’s enough to make Arthur smile, and reach out, an touch his arm, pulling him back towards where the crew is packing up. Someone hands him a badge for his shirt, and Arthur pals around with someone who looks important, and then he’s being bundled into a car, Arthur in the seat next to him, bound for the studios on the outskirts of the city, and that’s a long-ass time to be sat next to the actual man of his dreams without saying something truly regrettable.

He also spares a thought for ‘How the fuck am I getting home,’ but it’s a small thought, as Arthur’s hand is still inexplicably on his wrist.

“Just Eames, then?” Arthur asks. “No first name?”

“Yeah, um, yeah. Well, no. I mean, my name is Herbert. I—only my professors call me that.”

Arthur arches an elegant eyebrow. “You’re a student.”

Eames winces. “Yeah, uh. Third year. Graduate, soon. Thinking of doing a masters, in a year or so.”  
Arthur makes a hmm sound, and Eames shifts in the seat, certain he’ll be dropped at the nearest tube station for being a good ten years too young to even be in the same car as Arthur. But Arthur just lets go of Eames’ wrist, slender fingers stroking over the inside as he does, and smiles, like a shark. “And what you study?”

And Eames still isn’t certain why he’s being allowed to do this, to have this kind of a beautiful, normal conversation, but he is, and he can embrace it. So he answers—American studies, going into journalism—and they’re off, caught up in a whirlwind of conversation the likes of which Eames has been dying for, and he didn’t even know it. It also occurs to him, as Arthur is talking animatedly about the impact of pop culture on even very good films, today, that he can never share these moments with the Internet, because they are simply too good.

It is a feeling more triumphant than he expected, to have something so personal. Then again, maybe it’s just the feeling of making Arthur smile, which is a sensation all its own.

“I don’t usually do this,” Arthur says suddenly, although given the circumstances it doesn’t feel sudden at all, rather like they’ve been dancing towards this topic the whole time. “Pick up strays, I mean. It’s just that you looked at me differently than any of the rest of them. Like I didn’t owe you anything.”

“Most people tell me it’s because I care too much,” Eames replies. “I just think—you’re just a guy who’s good at his job, which just happens to be in entertainment. You _don’t_ owe me anything, don’t owe anyone anything, once you step off camera or offstage. I can’t be the only person who sees it like that.”  
All of which is nice, and true, and good, and feels fantastic to say out loud. But Arthur is staring at his mouth again and Eames thinks they might almost be there, so he chews on his lower lip until Arthur’s eyes snap back up.

“You,” Arthur says, quiet, deliberate, “are the kind of person I could keep forever.”

Eames has half-baked protests ready, how Arthur doesn’t know him, not the way he knows Arthur, how he can’t be sure they’ll even get along, how it’s just— _something_ talking, although he doesn’t know what, but just then Arthur puts a hand on Eames’ cheek, and suddenly Eames is being kissed quite firmly in the backseat of a hired car by Campbell Arthur.

Right, well. He finds that every protest has gone right out of his head, and this is _not_ how he expected his Friday to go.

Arthur pulls away after a moment, swallowing thickly. “We’re here,” he says. “I’d blow off the afternoon if I could, but these scenes need to be done today. If you, um. If you want to wait, or look around, we could go to dinner, after.”

It occurs to Eames that Arthur might be nervous about this, as nervous as he is. Which is, quite frankly, ridiculous, but they have only known each other for a few hours, even if Eames likes to think he’s known Arthur all his life. It’s convoluted and confusing and yeah, okay, this might not be the _best_ idea, but it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted and he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, unless it’s to kiss him again.

Which he does, pressing into Arthur’s space, telegraphing everything even though the driver is certain to open the door any moment. “We can do anything,” he says into Arthur’s mouth, and Arthur takes it in like a promise.

“Okay,” he says as Eames pulls away. “Okay, let’s go.” He pulls Eames out of the car and smiles that dimpled smile, and suddenly, even though he knows all the things that could go wrong, following Arthur into the building is the easiest thing in the world.


End file.
